10. Obedience as Strategy #3
He felt it like a lash. His shoulders shifted, stiff, and then, after a brief pause, he stood.
The scrape of his chair on stone echoed as he disappeared into the kitchen.
Allora continued fussing, smoothing the cushion into place, her dark hair falling forward as she bent close to Surian's shoulder.
When Malec returned, he carried a clean cloth bundled with ice.
Surian and Luko both stared, shocked, as if seeing him with new eyes.
It wasn't that Malec lacked affection or felt nothing; it was simply that his upbringing and rigid personality kept those feelings locked in strange, controlled gestures.
Allora had suspected for some time that he was neurodivergent, though she never said it aloud.
He did show care, only differently. Still, he could learn to be gentler.
"Forward," Malec said simply, and Surian obeyed.
He adjusted the pillow to cradle the cold bundle against her back.
She flushed under the rare attention, unused to being fussed over herself.
Malec noticed, and his mouth curved into a crooked, fleeting smile.
He reached out, rustled her hair the way he used to when she was small.
"I did not mean to push you," he murmured, voice rough but careful. "I am sorry."
The words hung heavy. Allora's eyes snapped up to him, astonished. Dazed. He had said it unprompted. For a moment her breath stilled. Malec caught her expression, and the softness vanished. His face shuttered, cool, as though he had revealed too much.
"Sit," he ordered flatly. "Eat before your food goes cold."
Allora hid her smile, burying her triumph beneath the clink of her fork. She obeyed without sparring with him, which said enough.
The meal after that was almost pleasant.
They spoke of Awyan politics and the affairs of the courts, their voices weaving through candlelight and steaming bowls.
Only Allora remained quiet, though the stillness in her wasn't emptiness but calculation.
Malec's hand rested on her lap beneath the table, heavy and possessive, a constant reminder of his presence, his claim.
She chewed slowly, thoughts running like a storm tide.
When do I move? What's the right moment?
It was Surian who broke her thoughts, her voice light but purposeful. "The tea party tomorrow. Kirelle extended the invitation again."
Allora's head lifted.
"At the jeweler's," Surian continued, "Kirelle and her brother were there. She insisted we come."
Of course she did. Allora's pulse quickened. Kirelle wanted to slip something to her, a gift, an anchor, a tool to help her escape. Allora knew it instantly, the way women spoke in code when the world around them was watching. Kirelle wanted her gone as much as she herself longed to leave.
Allora tilted her head toward Surian, her tone careful, almost too casual. "Did Kirelle ask for both of us, or did she ask for you?"
Surian's face lit, her perfect posture softening. "She asked for you. By name." She beamed as though she were relaying the most delightful gossip, as though Kirelle's attention to Allora was a gift to be treasured.
Allora's lips curved, but her stomach turned tight.
One problem, one unmovable obstacle, sat beside her, wound tighter than steel, his hand already a band of iron around her thigh beneath the table.
She turned, lifting her gaze. She didn't speak at first, only widened her eyes, softening them, a plea flickering there.
Then her voice slipped out in that tone she knew he hated, that soft, coaxing register that unraveled his guard. "Malec... am I allowed to go?"
For a long beat he said nothing, only studied her with that unreadable stare.
His sun-dried wheat colored eyes seemed to deepen into a darker hue.
She could feel the storm gathering in him before he even spoke.
In his mind, the morning replayed. Her threat, her schemes, the way she had reminded him of the control she thought she had.
He had not forgotten or forgiven. She would slip through any crack he gave her, and he knew it.
His thumb pressed harder into her leg, not enough to bruise, but enough to tell her he was thinking, weighing, considering.
"You dare ask me so," he said at last, his voice low enough for only her to hear, though it carried the rumble of warning. "After this morning, after the stunt you thought to play? You seek freedom, little flame. And you would take it the moment I turn my eyes."
His gaze burned hers, and she saw the hesitation, the fear beneath the possessiveness. The fear that she would be gone, that someone else would touch what was his.
Luko, ever the voice of reason, finally cleared his throat. "Malec," he said gently, "what did your father tell you this afternoon? And what would Surin say if he were sitting here now?"
The reminder struck its mark. Malec's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into slits.
His lips curled in a hiss, edged and intentional, as though Luko had just betrayed him.
Surin's words, however, would not be shaken.
They echoed through his mind like a steady drum.
With a grunt he turned away, his hands moving to rearrange the remnants of his plate, angling the cup so it faced him, straightening silverware though the food was nearly gone.
His compulsions soothed him, but the storm in his chest only grew.
Allora would not let the moment slip. She leaned into him, pressing her shoulder against his. The sudden affection made him jolt, breath caught off guard.
"Malec," she whispered, her voice sliding soft and sweet into his ear, "what if you came too?
Then would you let me go? I am not trying to run.
I just want to have fun, to get out of this house, to speak to someone other than you and these walls.
You keep me locked away, and I hate it. I need fresh air. "
Surian chimed in brightly, mischief softening her words. "If you went, brother, it would be the talk of the city. The great Silver Fox gracing a lady's tea party." She giggled into her napkin.
Allora turned her head and swatted at her playfully. "Don't make him nervous, Surian, or he'll lock me away forever and I'll never have fun again."
Malec remained stiff, uncertain. She could feel him thinking, unraveling, weighing danger against her request.
So she helped him decide.
Her hand slid beneath the cover of the heavy tablecloth, fingers brushing over his thigh.
The touch was light at first, exploratory, trailing higher with deliberate slowness.
His muscles tensed beneath her palm, his entire body going rigid as her fingers found the hard length straining against his trousers.
She traced the outline of him through the fabric, feeling him twitch at the contact, already thick and eager.
Then she cupped him fully, her palm molding to the shape of him as she began to rub in lazy, circling patterns.
Heat flooded through him like wildfire. His cock swelled further under her touch, blood rushing until he throbbed against her hand, every nerve ending alive and screaming.
The pressure of her palm was maddening, the slow rotation of her fingers pure torture.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning, his breath catching in his throat.
The sound that escaped him was clipped, startled, half growl and half broken breath.
Luko and Surian looked up sharply, eyes catching on him.
But with the thick cloth hanging down and the way Allora leaned close, nothing could be seen.
Only Malec knew. Only the damn Canariae at his side knew, her fingers burning patterns into his most sensitive flesh.
His mind fractured. Part of him wanted to grab her wrist and stop this torment before he embarrassed himself completely.
The other half, the starving part of him that had been denied her touch for days, wanted to spread his legs wider and let her do whatever she pleased.
In his mind's eye he saw himself shoving the plates aside, lifting her onto the table, and burying himself inside her until she screamed his name.
He wanted to devour her, consume her, make her pay for this sweet agony with hours of relentless pleasure until she begged him to stop.
But they weren't alone. And she knew it. She was using his own desire against him, weaponizing the affection he craved.
He knew she was manipulating him and that this was a calculated move to get what she wanted.
But gods help him, it was affection. Touch.
Her hand on him willingly, her body pressed close, her breath warm against his ear.
He would take it, would welcome any scrap of intimacy she offered, even if it came wrapped in deception.
Her fingers squeezed gently, then stroked upward along his length through the fabric, and his vision blurred at the edges.
His voice cracked when he tried to answer her, coming out in a higher register than intended. "I will... think on it, dove. You were sick..." His words strangled as her grip tightened around his length, a dangerous squeeze that promised she would not accept refusal.
Across the table, Surian tilted her head in concern. "Malec, are you well? You look pale, as though you might be sick."
"Yes," Luko added, skeptical. "You look like you're about to vomit."
Malec's body wound tighter and tighter, heat crawling up his neck.
His pulse hammered, his breath short and uneven.
It had been too long, even though it was honestly not even a few days, since he had felt her wrapped around him, moaning his name as though nothing else in the world mattered.
He wasn't sure he could withstand this provocation, especially with her whisper-threat earlier to withhold from him forever.